shouldn't have  would have
by xiniqx
Summary: Tim didn't raise his rifle in the Bennett house in Bloody Harlan. But what if he had?


**shouldn't have / would have**

[tim didn't raise his rifle in the bennett house in bloody harlan. But what if he had?]

* * *

><p>On the way back, Art drove. Tim was sitting in the passenger seat as per unofficial agreement, and Raylan was sitting in the back, legs stretched out. Art took a deep breath and poked at Tim again, reminding him to keep his eyes on the road. They had had that once, and only once. They had driven to Frankfort, and Tim had slept on the way, only to almost throw up half way because he'd gotten car sick. Rachel had never forgiven him for making that choking noise before she had managed to get the car to the side of the road. Tim jerked his leg away, but straightened a bit in his seat.<p>

"Would you have shot her?" Raylan asked suddenly and moved so he was hanging between them, elbows on the backs of their seats.

"Why?" Tim asked, not moving from his position. He was sitting completely still, eyes half-closed. Art spared him a glance, but Tim didn't seem upset at the question.

"Loretta. She was pointing a gun at me. Would you have shot her if you thought you had to?" Raylan elaborated.

"Of course."

Art looked at the road, steadfast. He had been afraid of that answer. It would not have been as bad, if Tim hadn't sounded almost offended at the question. He did, though. He said 'of course' like there was no question about it, like he wouldn't hesitate shooting a child. Raylan seemed to think so, too.

"It was Loretta. She's sixteen."

Tim made a noise at the back of throat like he was trying not to laugh at Raylan's naïveté.

"She had a gun pointed at you, Rachel, and me. She had just shot someone," Tim recounted the facts. "You realize that even eight-year-olds can throw hand grenades."

Raylan nodded jerkily. Art could feel him stiffen next to him. "This is not Afghanistan," he said then.

"Raylan," Art warned him. Neither of them could know what went on in their sniper's head. Neither of them could possibly understand what it was like to be in a war zone. Sure, sometimes Kentucky's back country felt like one, but it was still not as dangerous as the places Tim had seen.

"No, Art," Raylan said and shook his head. "I didn't come to her rescue, just to see Tim pointing that rifle at her."

Tim turned towards Art and smiled. "He's right," he said. "Remember my first day, when you told me you needed a Marshal, not a sniper?"

Art tilted his head. He had changed his mind about that a long time ago and had tried to let Tim know how much his skills were appreciated. It seemed, however, that some words couldn't be taken back. Especially earlier today, he had been damn glad his deputy was so good with a rifle. That exchange could have gone a lot different if Tim hadn't shot Doyle the moment he had.

"He saved your ass today," Art reminded Raylan.

"That doesn't make it better," Raylan insisted. He leaned back, exasperated. "It doesn't."

"I know there's something wrong with me," Tim said quietly, looking anywhere but at them. He didn't fiddle. He didn't sit up straighter or hide in his seat. He just looked out the window, calm as ever, like he hadn't just said that. Art glanced at him, wondering where he was going with that. He wished they had taken different cars.

Tim took a breath then and continued in a different direction, "I've never hesitated making that decision before and I won't start now. And I won't apologize for it either." He looked down at his hands. "And if you can't deal with that," he stopped himself there. Art hoped he stopped because he had no answer and not because he was thinking about doing something stupid. They had had that conversation before – a painfully honest and very drunken conversation. Technically, with his physical fitness level back to where it had been before he had been shot, Tim could go back to active service. What Art had taken away from that conversation, however, was the understanding that if Tim went back there, he wouldn't make it home the same man he was now, if he did at all. And as much as Art believed that the Rangers would profit from having Tim at their back, he much rather wanted someone else to take up the rifle in his stead. He had gotten used to the sarcastic bastard.

Art looked into the rear view mirror, directly at Raylan. He tried to ask silently, tried not to make a big deal out of begging Raylan not to say anything else. Raylan looked back at him. "Fuck," Raylan said and took his head off to run his hand through his hair. "I'm sorry," he said then. "Okay. It's just-" He interrupted himself. "You're right."

It was as if a switch had been flicked, because Tim grinned all of a sudden. "I knew you'd see it that way, Raylan."

The sudden mood change made both Art and Raylan uncomfortable. The three of them continued the ride in silence. The next time Tim's head slid to the side and his eyes closed, Art didn't poke him awake.


End file.
